Into the Storm

Dearest J.,

Sadly, I have only one happy memory of my father.

I think I was about five—maybe six? Yes. I was six. I remember distinctly because my younger sister hadn’t been born yet and I was leery of a little stranger being sent from heaven to live with us.

According to the way Mama tells the story, I was a precocious girl, always getting into cupboards or her sewing box. Worse yet, I had an uncanny knack for escaping without her knowledge. New latches on the doors and a neat fence around the yard made very little impression on my wayward spirit. I didn’t want to entertain myself within the confines of the tiny house. As far as I was concerned, the cramped, four-room shack was lacking in imagination. The same was true of the rocky lawn. And the fence? I regarded the neatly painted pickets with the same contempt a prisoner might eye his cellblock bars.

No, I wanted to explore the thick forest that meandered through the valley below the sawmill. There were age-old pine trees and fairy circles as well as squirrels and chipmunks and raccoons. Even better, away in the distance, I could see an enormous emerald pool—an abandoned quarry that had filled with water. I’d been warned countless times about staying away from the old limestone pit, but the mysterious blue-green lake became an obsession. I was sure that something so beautiful must harbor untold magic.

That fateful afternoon, while my mother bent low over her washboard on the front porch, I found a crate in the larder and dragged it up to the back door. Carefully climbing atop it, I leaned forward as far as I could and slipped the hook free from the latch. As soon as it worked free, out I tumbled, coming to a soft landing in the midst of Mama’s petunias.

I’m not sure how long I lay there, inhaling their musky scent, my body pulsing with the thrill of being free.

I hadn’t been caught.

I hadn’t been caught!

Quick to finish my escape, I scrambled upright and wriggled beneath the fence in the same spot our dog Lucky had used earlier that week. At a trot, I headed for a forbidden path that wound through the towering evergreens. I would be back long before my mother finished the washing. No one would ever know about the adventure I’d had.

The trail was easy to follow, the ground cocoa-brown against the new spring grass. Birds chattered from the trees overhead—fat chickadees and vibrant jays. Squirrels darted in the shadows, chirping angrily at me for disturbing their idyllic afternoon, their bushy tails flipping and twitching indignantly in their wake. Following them, I left the path and wandered deeper into the woods.

I don’t know how long I explored. It could have been minutes or maybe an hour. But gradually, I realized that my surroundings had become completely unfamiliar. I stopped, making a slow, complete circle as my enchantment evaporated. Shadows cast by the pine trees crept ominous fingers across the ground. The familiar noises of the forest faded, overlaid by the guttural croaking of frogs and the incessant creak of crickets. More ominous still were the rustling sounds coming from the undergrowth.

The hair on my arms stood at attention and I was swamped with foreboding. I had disobeyed my mother and she would be cross. And my father…

I didn’t even want to consider his anger.

Too frightened to try to find my way back home, I climbed atop a large rock, sitting with my arms wound tightly around my knees. Hugging myself for warmth, I watched the stars blink on, one by one.

Soon, the moon rose high enough over the mountains to cast its sickly glow and I began to cry in earnest, huge heartrending sobs that exhausted me even further. I’d been a wicked girl and this time I deserved to be punished. My father would see to that.

Yet even as I shivered at the thought of what he would do in order to drive away my disobedience, I discovered I didn’t care. I would willingly face whatever consequences awaited me if only someone would come and take me home.

I’m not sure how long I lay there or when I fell asleep. A pink light was beginning to appear when a strong pair of arms lifted me into a gentle embrace. Still more asleep than awake, I made a weak show of resistance until I heard my father whisper my name.

I waited for his anger to ignite, for the dire reprisals I knew he had planned. I was completely at his mercy.

But nothing happened. Instead, he drew me close and all thought of fighting dissipated like dew against a summer sun. I nestled into the warmth of his body, my nose pressed into his shoulder. His beard was as scratchy as steel wool against my cheek, but oh, so welcome. That beard and the scents of pitch and pine shavings were as familiar to me as my own name.

As relief crashed through my body, sleep threatened to swamp me again. But I felt my father’s arms tighten in a desperate hug. A sob snagged his breath—and when he kissed my hair, I felt his tears.

Stunned, I remained motionless in his arms, hardly daring to breathe lest I break whatever spell hung over my father. For the longest time, I’d been sure that he didn’t like me much. That he’d resented the fact I hadn’t been born a boy. But at that moment, as he hugged me close, I felt…cherished.

Close on the heels of that thought came a desperate panic. Instinctively, I knew that if my father realized I was awake, this unfathomable outpouring of tenderness would vanish and his anger and indifference would return. So I feigned sleep, thinking this could be a new beginning for us.

It was not to be. In the years that followed, his affection would prove more elusive than gold. Unable to comprehend why he found me so unlikable, I struggled to please him, fruitlessly trying to recapture the emotions of that night. But it was as if the depth of emotion he’d felt had boiled dry. My very presence would fill him with a jittery anger that was impossible to control.

If only I could have known early on what lay ahead, the utter fear and emotional darkness into which I would be plunged in my search to recapture that sense of belonging. Maybe if I’d known how difficult such a search would prove, the memory of that distant event wouldn’t linger in my memory like the searing heat of a brand upon my soul.

RueAnn

Chapter One

Washington D.C., U.S.A

September, 1939

Charles Tolliver crossed to the front desk of the Merrimac Hotel and tapped his fingers restlessly on the marble counter. A few yards away, a nattily dressed clerk with an Errol Flynn mustache finished speaking on the telephone.

Charlie checked the tickets he’d tucked into his pocket earlier that morning. Less than twenty-four hours remained before he would be on a train for New York. Mere hours after that, he’d be sailing for London.

So where the hell was Jean-Claude?

Finally, the clerk placed the receiver on the cradle and turned to Charlie.

May I help you?

Room 406, please.

The man turned toward a wall of cubbies, light from the crystal chandelier gleaming from an excess of Brylcreem in his hair. When he returned, he offered a placid smile and slid the key across the richly veined marble along with a small bulky envelope.

This was left for you earlier today.

Charlie felt his gut tighten, but he kept his features neutral.

Thank you.

Dropping the packet into his trouser pocket, he jingled it carelessly with his spare change as he moved toward the bank of elevators against the rear wall. Eschewing the open car with its buxom operator, he dodged into the stairwell and took the steps two at a time.

Mere moments before reaching the door to the third floor, he paused, peering down over the spiral banister, then up. Backing out of the line of sight, he ripped open the envelope and tipped it sideways.

A gold lighter fell into his palm, causing the hairs at the back of his neck to prickle. The edges were worn, the etchings smoothed away to near extinction.

Jean-Claude’s.

Lifting the lid, he examined the mechanism, and then the inner cavity, finding a slip of rolled up paper.

Taking a pen from his inside pocket, Charlie coaxed the paper free, unfolding it.

Being watched. Second location. 1800.

Muttering an expletive under his breath, Charlie pocketed the lighter and took the last flight of stairs at breakneck speed. Within five minutes, he’d gathered his belongings and stood at the window, fingering the curtain aside so that he could peer down into the street below.

If Jean-Claude were being watched, that meant it was only prudent to assume…

His gaze fell on a figure who sat on a bus bench at the end of the block. Dark hat, dark trench coat. Had Charlie seen him before? The set of his shoulders, the slouch looked…overly casual. Much like a gentleman in a sweater who’d taken a seat behind Charlie and his companions at the movies last night.

Bloody hell, he muttered under his breath. With only hours to go, he couldn’t afford to miss Jean-Claude, but meeting him now would be more difficult. He could only be grateful that they’d set a backup meeting place early on.

Scanning the street, he grew still when his eyes landed on a construction fence plastered with dozens of posters that proclaimed:

Come See Glory Bee Hallelujah and Her Diplomat Angels!

Dropping the curtain, he grabbed his suitcase and his hat and made his way back to the lobby. Strolling as casually as possible, he returned to the front desk.

My bill, please.

Of course, sir. I hope your stay was satisfactory.

Very. Charlie offered him what he hoped was a sly grin. I’ve merely managed to find more…pleasant company for my last evening in town.

The clerk’s smile was all-knowing. Very good, sir.

Donning his hat, Charlie approached the shoeshine stand, then, at the last minute, altered his path to the side door. Stepping into the sunshine, he strode north, away from the figure he’d seen watching the front entrance. Carefully, he wove through several side alleys, retracing his steps twice, until he was sure he hadn’t been followed. Then, seeing a trolling taxi, he signaled to the driver.

Glory Bee wouldn’t be at the theater yet so he would go to her apartment. She was bound to let him borrow her car—and with luck, Charlie would be able to finagle the companionship of one of her roommates as well. A drive into the countryside, a seemingly innocent errand to the Maryland shore…

What could be simpler?

• • •

RueAnn, there’s a phone call for you.

RueAnn barely glanced up. Her needle flashed in the dim light as she repaired the beaded hem of Glory Bee O’Halloran’s costume—a strip of fabric worn sarong style during an exotic rendition of Flying Down to Rio. RueAnn had been sewing since sunup, making the necessary repairs to the damage that appeared after each performance to the dozens of outfits used in the burlesque review. She still had three ripped seams and a sleeve to reattach. Then it would be time to wash and iron shirts and reset the wigs. If she could get everything finished by noon, she could spend the day exploring the Smithsonian until wardrobe call at six that evening.

"RueAnn, did you hear me?

She made a final knot and bit the end of the thread free.

Are you sure the telephone is for me? she said absently, searching for her yellow thread. No one knew she was in Washington other than the performers who were her roommates—and their apartment didn’t have a phone.

One of the women who worked in the front office leaned into the doorway. She said her name was Astrid…Astral…

RueAnn’s head reared up. Astra?

Yeah, that’s it.

Her fingers grew suddenly clumsy, the needle pricking her finger and drawing blood. If Astra was on the line, it could only be bad news. Phone calls were next to impossible to arrange in Defiance, West Virginia—especially if Astra wanted to keep her conversation private. Using the pay phone at the company store would have aroused too many questions since the Boggs children were forbidden to use such a tool from the devil. That meant Astra had hitched a ride to Money or Slaterville in order to get a message to her.

Heedless of the costumes in her lap, RueAnn jumped to her feet. Stepping over the puddle of satin and sequins, she rushed to the stage where a phone had been bolted to the wall near the stage manager’s desk. The receiver dangled from its cord, swinging like an oversized pendulum, marking the time it took for RueAnn to wend her way past the carpenters and grips who were readying the theater for this evening’s performance.

Astra?

There was an audible sob on the other end of the line. RueAnn, Pa knows where you are!

What?

Pa knows you’re in Washington. I-I don’t know how he found out. I swear I didn’t say anything. I swear it!

RueAnn’s gripped the receiver so tightly, it creaked. Dear God. Just a few nights ago, she thought she’d seen Clive Meade—one of her father’s buddies from the sawmill—on the street outside the theater. But when she’d paused to take another look, the man had disappeared and she’d brushed off the incident as an example of her growing paranoia.

Her younger sister was crying openly now, the piteous sound made even worse by the distance that separated them.

Astra, shhh. It’s okay. I think I know how he found out, RueAnn offered, nervously wrapping the phone cord around her wrist as her thoughts scattered like buckshot.

RueAnn, you’ve got to get out of there, Astra urged, echoing her thoughts.

RueAnn stammered, I-I can’t leave right now. I’ve got a job. And friends. Last night I went with Glory Bee to the—

RueAnn! Astra interrupted forcefully. Pa didn’t go to work today.

What? RueAnn braced her back against the wall.

Her father never missed work.

Never.

Please, RueAnn, you’ve got to go. Pa and Gideon took the truck and disappeared late last night. Both of them were mad, RueAnn, really mad. I didn’t find out until this morning that they were headed for Washington. It took me forever to get a ride into Money so I could warn you.

You’re sure? RueAnn breathed. Yards away, the flickering exit sign tapped out its own mayday signal.

Flick, flick, flick…flash, flash, flash…flick, flick, flick.

Yes! Her sister paused then added, RueAnn…he took the shotgun with him and… Astra was crying openly now. And…and the box from the pulpit.

The phone cord biting into RueAnn’s wrist had caused her fingers to turn purple. It was that color, that sickening, unnatural shade that jolted RueAnn out of her disbelief.

She’d been so careful this time. No letters home, no phone calls, nothing. She’d merely slipped away one night, hitching a ride out of Defiance, and heading for the bus station. Emptying the bag of coins she’d been stashing for over a year, she’d asked for a ticket that would take her as far away as her money would allow. Then she’d boarded a bus for Washington D.C.

How much time did she have left? The bus ride to Washington D.C. had been about eight hours, but they’d stopped at least a dozen times along the way. In a truck, her father would have the advantage.

Where will you go?

RueAnn scrambled for an answer, but her brain stuck in the same groove, like a needle hitting a scratch in a record. If Jacob Boggs had discovered she worked in a burlesque theater…

There would be no reasoning with him. He would beat her senseless then haul her back to Defiance by the roots of her hair.

Come hell or high water, she would not go back to that life.

Miss Boggs, have you finished those repairs yet?

RueAnn started at the costume mistress’ call. Glancing over her shoulder, she flashed what she hoped was a natural smile.

I’m almost finished, Ma’am.

Very well. I’ll see you later this evening.

As soon as the woman disappeared in the wings, RueAnn hunched over the phone. I’ve got to go, Astra.

Be careful. Get away from there as soon as you can.

I will. I… She swallowed hard, injecting a light note into her voice that sounded false even to her own ears. I’ll be in touch. Don’t worry. I’ll find a way to let you know I’m safe and sound.

Very carefully, she replaced the receiver on its cradle. Then, as if the bottom of her world hadn’t dropped out beneath her, she made her way back to the narrow room dubbed the costume closet.

More than anything else, she regretted that she would have to leave Mrs. Bixby in the lurch. The woman had given her a job when no one else would. If RueAnn hurried, she could finish her sewing then explain to her…

What? That despite being a legal adult, she was running away from her father?

Panic made her stumble as she ran the last few feet to the costume closet. Hastily, she gathered her possessions and the mementoes she’d gathered in her short time here—her comb and mirror, scraps of pure silk velvet she intended to sew into a pillow for Astra, and a photograph of the costume crew laughing and pointing at the marquee outside the theater. Shoving them all into her pocketbook, she draped her coat over her arm and planted her hat on her head, stabbing a pin through the brim. Last of all, she scrawled a hasty note on Mrs. Bixby’s To Do list, explaining that she’d been notified of an emergency at home and she needed to leave. If all went well, RueAnn would return as soon as she could.

If only that were true. If only she could come back.

She knew that her father would consider them all evil—the comedians, the musicians, the animal handlers…and yes, the strippers. But she’d received more kindness and acceptance from these sinners than she’d ever felt from her father’s congregation in Defiance.

Aching with the injustice of it all, RueAnn took one last look at the cramped room stuffed to the gills with two sewing machines, fabric bolts, boxes of trims and buttons, and gaily colored threads. Then she dodged for the exit.

RueAnn was so intent on making her escape that she didn’t see the figure that stood just outside. The door swung wide, hitting him in the shoulder, and then rebounded to slam against her, sending her pocketbook flying. As her purse landed on the ground, the contents slid wildly over the paint-spattered floorboards, the scraps of silk gleaming red and blue and gold in the midst of the kaleidoscopic mess.

Hold on, there!

The man gripped her arm, steadying her just as a resounding slam ricocheted through the theater. From somewhere near the stage, voices rose into shouts.

Every muscle in RueAnn’s body strained to hear the cause of the commotion. When she heard a string of curses, followed by the familiar strident commands of the lighting designer. No. It was just Mr. Murphy yelling at his crew.

RueAnn relaxed infinitesimally. She still had time.

Are you all right? the man asked.

The world swam back into focus and she found herself staring into the concerned features of a stranger.

No.

Not a stranger.

It was Charles Tolliver. He’d come to visit Glory Bee after her performance last night. Then he’d invited Glory and all her roommates to the movies and dinner.

RueAnn flushed, forcing herself to look away. From the moment she’d been introduced to Charlie, she’d been curiously enthralled by him. As they’d dined on a Blue Plate Special of pot roast and mashed potatoes, she’d hung on his every word, loving the way his accent turned even the most mundane conversation into poetry. And his eyes…they’d continually met hers over the course of the evening, their gray-blue depths sparkling with an inner mischievous light as if he were privy to an unknown punch line. Later, when he’d somehow arranged to be sitting next to her at the movies, she hadn’t been able to concentrate on the screen. Instead, she’d been infused with warmth, acutely aware of the way his arm pressed against hers whenever he shifted in his seat.

Are you hurt? he prompted again.

RueAnn eased free from the heat that had already begun its sinuous journey through her veins. I’m sorry, I…I wasn’t looking where I was going. Dropping to her knees, she scrambled to gather her things, but in her haste, she only made things worse.

Here, let me help.

He crouched on his heels and began to scoop up her makeup and personal items with the careless efficiency of his sex, dumping them pell-mell into her pocketbook. He was so clumsy—yet so willing to come to her aid—that she involuntarily laughed, her distress easing.

Charlie isn’t it? she said with forced casualness.

I’ve come to take you to lunch, he replied without preamble.

RueAnn paused, startled.

But Glory and the others are—

Not with Glory. Just the two of us, if you’re game.

A glow unlike she’d ever felt before began low in her body, spreading upward until it radiated through her body to the tips of her fingers and the ends of her toes. But a bang from the stage shattered the effect and the heady emotions dissipated like smoke.

I’m sorry, I can’t. She quickly cleared her throat so that she wouldn’t betray how close the words had come to cracking under the strain of her disappointment. Really, I wish—

Charlie grinned at her then. A lopsided grin that made his pale blue eyes twinkle invitingly. He was obviously a man prone to laughter because lines radiated away from his eyes and the creases bracketing his mouth deepened. Come now. You’ve got to eat.

In the light of the bulb that hung overhead, his sandy hair gleamed with reddish highlights. She could see the faint echo of a naughty little boy in his face, although there was nothing childish about his appearance.

She glanced at her watch. But it’s only ten thirty.

True. But I’ve got some business to see to in Maryland and I thought you could keep me company.

RueAnn rose, looping her bag around her arm. Yet her true attention was centered on Charlie as he straightened to full height. He was tall, taller than her father. But not beefy like Jacob Boggs. This man was lean. Angular. His shoulders so square, they could have been carved from a block of granite. Even in her current state of agitation, she couldn’t deny the fluttering deep in the pit of her stomach.

Why? Why had this happened to her now? Why couldn’t her father let RueAnn lead her life as she saw fit? Why couldn’t she pursue her job, her dreams—and yes, why couldn’t she spend time with a gentleman like this one? One who was charming and good-looking and…and…elegantly foreign?

When she spoke again, it was with very real regret. I-I’m really sorry, Charlie, but…

She hurried toward the exit, her shoes making dull thudding noises. Like nails being pounded into a coffin.

Behind her, she heard Charlie scoop something from the floor, but she paid him no mind. If something more had fallen from her bag, it didn’t matter. She needed to leave. Now.

But if she’d thought to escape him, it wasn’t to be. Charlie quickly caught up, leaning around her to push open the door.

After the gloom of the theater, RueAnn blinked against the sudden morning light.

Why the rush? Charlie asked as he joined her on the rickety stoop.

I’m sorry, Mr. Tolliver, truly I am.

Charlie.

Charlie. She scrambled to think of a logical excuse for avoiding his invitation when just last night she would have broken her right arm for a few hours alone with him. I…I have some important errands and—

I’ll help you do them later. I’ve got Glory’s motorcar. I can take you wherever you need to go. He pointed to a blue sedan parked in the theater’s back lot.

She took a deep breath, before turning to face him. If you want to know the truth, I’m trying to avoid someone.

Who?

She hesitated only an instant before saying, My father. He’s a minister. He doesn’t approve of my job and if he catches me here…

RueAnn couldn’t continue, and to his credit, Charlie didn’t pry.

Then come with me, he said gently. I’ll help you get away—for the whole day if you want.

RueAnn opened her mouth to refuse just as she became aware of a disturbance from the front of the theater. Glancing past Charlie’s shoulder, she froze as a battered pickup truck screeched to a halt, nearly blocking the alley. An all-too-familiar shape emerged from the driver’s seat. Her father stood grim and bullish, his features clouded with anger. He barked an order to the other passenger and her brother emerged, moving toward the main entrance.

They’d found her.

Please say you’ll come, she heard Charlie say, his voice seeming to float to her from a million miles away. ’Pears to me like you need some time off. All this work in the theater has left you pale. And if you’re with me, your father wouldn’t even know where to look. I can take you far away from here.

Away.

She looked at Charlie, at the blue Model A sedan parked so close to the exit, at her father’s battered pickup.

Distantly, she heard the thump of fists pounding on the front doors of the theater. It would only be a matter of time before her father decided to come down the alley in search of another means inside.

Come on, Charlie said again.

This time she nodded, hating herself for using this man—this sweet, funny man—in order to make her escape. She had no choice really. She had to leave before her father caught sight of her.

And she wanted to go so badly.

Okay.

Bravo, Charlie said with such pleasure that a pinpoint of warmth settled in her chest.

He held out his hand, palm up. She stared at the offering, at skin free from the cracked, grease-stained calluses that she’d seen on every male she’d ever known in Defiance. So different. And yet strong and compelling in a way she couldn’t completely fathom. Somehow, she knew that if she went with him, she would be safe. If only for a little while.

Numbly, she slid her cold fingers over his and allowed him to lead her toward the sedan.

• • •

London, England

Please, Susan! You’ve got to help me!

Ignoring her twin, Susan Blunt used every ounce of energy she possessed to appear as if she were studying her stenography characters, when in reality she wanted to turn to Sara and demand, "Why? Why did you have to kiss Paul Overdone? Why you and not me?"

But pride prevented her from giving even the least sign that she’d seen them earlier—Paul and Sara, huddled together in the upper hall, Paul’s arm around her waist as if they’d just shared a passionate embrace and torn away from one another.

Not for the first time, Susan railed at the unfairness of it all. While Susan had been born practical and permanently rumpled, Sara had been gifted with an ethereal femininity that drew men to her like bees to honey.

And Paul Overdone, one of her brother’s best friends from University, was no exception.

Susan scowled at her notebook. She’d only just met Paul. Matthew, the oldest of the Blunt children, had brought him along during a weekend visit the day before. From the moment he’d burst through the door on Matthew’s heels, Susan had been smitten.

But clearly, he’d been drawn to Sara. Vibrant, effervescent Sara, who attracted men with infinite ease.

Susan!

Sara snatched the book from Susan’s hands and threw it onto the bed.

What? Susan sighed, finally breaking her silence. Do you have a ladder in your last pair of stockings and want mine?

"As if you’d have an extra pair hanging about."

True.

Sara grabbed her arm. No, this is serious. I’ve put myself into a bit of a pickle. With Paul, I mean.

Not something that Susan wanted to talk about, if you please.

Sara stamped her foot like a petulant child. Are you listening?

Yes. Susan couldn’t completely hide the belligerence in her tone.

Paul invited me to the fancy dress party he and Matthew are attending at the Primrose Dance Hall.

Susan ignored a stab of jealousy. It’s a bit of a short notice, isn’t it?

Yes. Well…I accepted, of course.

Of course.

But that was before I remembered I’d agreed to go to dinner with Bernard and his mother. I can’t back out now. You know how frail Mrs. Biddiwell has been.

Susan rolled her eyes. Dear, sweet, Sara. She was beautiful, kind, and as scatterbrained as the March Hare. It wasn’t the first time she’d double-booked herself.

I know I should simply tell Paul that I’ve remembered a previous engagement but—

Sara blushed—she actually blushed—making Susan’s headache intensify.

Anyhow, I had this sudden, scathingly brilliant idea. She bit her lip, grinned, and then blurted, Take my place—just for a few hours—then when I’ve finished with Bernard, I’ll come to the hall and we can switch over.

Susan laughed outright, then quickly sobered when she realized Sara had been completely earnest in her request.

You want me— she pointed to her own chest in disbelief, —to pretend to be you— she pointed to her twin, —on an evening out with Paul?

Sara clapped her hands. Yes!

Susan stared at Sara with utter bewilderment. Then, leaping to her feet, she said firmly, No. No, no, no! In two strides, she put as much distance as possible between Sara and herself—as if mere proximity to her twin could weaken her resolve. How could you even suggest such a thing?

Sara waved away Susan’s patent indignation. You needn’t get on your high horse. We’ve done it before.

Not since we were twelve!

Sara clasped her hands together in mute supplication. Only because we haven’t had a serious need to do so, Sara countered, her tone so reasonable, she could have been proposing that they switch places in a grocery line.

"Sara! The man asked you to a dance. And you wish to return the invitation by playing a prank?"

Not a prank, Sara countered indignantly. "Merely a…a…substitution. A temporary substitution. Sara grabbed her hand. If all goes well, Paul will never be the wiser and things can continue on as planned."

Continue on as planned. And what exactly did her sister mean—more kisses in the hall? Intimate dinners? Drives in the country? Why in heaven’s name would Susan want any part in such romantic developments?

Especially since she wanted the man for herself.

No. She did not want the man for herself. Paul Overdone had already made his attraction to Sara abundantly clear and Susan would not be caught groveling for the crumbs of his affection.

Which was precisely why she could not—would not—surrender to Sara’s emotional campaign.

As if sensing her sister’s stubborn resolve, Sara grasped her hands. Please, Susan. Her expression became wistful—and therefore so much harder to resist. "I wouldn’t do this if…if I didn’t genuinely like the man. And he’ll be returning to University in a matter of